Ache
by FuckMePumps
Summary: Royai. The day he gained the title is the day he lost her, but only because she didn't want to be the one left behind. Not again, and not anymore.


**A/N: **There is something so terribly, achingly _longing _in Royai that I haven't seen in any other pair in any other fandom. Words cannot express how much they rock. A tribute to the beauty of silent, unspoken devotion, of selflessness and letting go. Inspired by the song 'Far Away' by Nickelback. Please review afterwards.

—_a while."_

It was only a matter of time before he held the title he'd worked for all his life. His allies wouldn't have put so much faith in him if they weren't convinced he that would, eventually, and his enemies wouldn't have tried so hard to stop him if they didn't think he would become Fuhrer, and, in turn, destroy them someday.

The position came with many things—authority, wealth, but most of all, _influence, _the power to finally make a difference—but if he'd known what he'd lose, in turn, he certainly would have thought twice.

But it had been a spur-of-the-moment decision. No one predicted it. Not even her.

The instant he was presented to Amestris as its new leader, she knew she could no longer stay.

"_Why?" _His one good eye posed a question as she handed over her resignation letter, just when he'd called her into his office to promote her.

"_You've achieved your goal, and I've accomplished my duty to protect you until you did. The contract has been fulfilled." _It sounded more like an excuse, which it was, actually, but it was the only one she could give.

He didn't pursue it further, though part of her wished he did, because she would have told him, she really would have, the way he sighed and sat back down to sign her withdrawal papers, something murky and unfathomable in his gaze.

In reality, she had plenty of other reasons, just none that she could say out loud. _I've only been loyal to the military because of you, _or, _What do I do now that you have hundreds of bodyguards at your disposal?, _and, edging closer to the truth, _I lived only for you, and I don't know how to do anything else. _But perhaps, the one she couldn't even admit to herself: _You left me, once, and I can't bear to have you do it again. So I'm leaving you instead._

And so she did.

The following day she packed her bags and moved as far away from Central City as she could without so much as a goodbye. She knew her resolve would have broken if she even attempted to.

Five years pass before she sees him again, though theoretically she often catches glimpses of his picture in the morning paper, fondly called by the people as 'Fuhrer Godsend' due to how he seems to have done more for their country than most of the past Fuhrers have put together.

She's surprised, one day, when she comes from the small school where she taught (History and Language, since she figured it wouldn't be a good idea to teach weaponry to children) to find a large white envelope in the mailbox. She never gets any mail, since she hasn't told anybody where she was.

She couldn't help the amusement that lights up her features as she reads it contents—it seems that a particular brigadier general, who'd been infamous for his smoking habit, was getting married in a few weeks (for the third time, but he'd been drunk for the first two) and he'd pulled some strings with the Investigations department to find out just where in the world she had gone off to.

She couldn't miss it, so for old times' sake she included an old scarlet dress in her suitcase and took several trains to what used to be her home.

The nuptials were grand in a subtle kind of way, with an explosion of flowers, no doubt the bride's doing. There was an ample amount of guests, a few of them familiar, most of them strangers. None of them had recognized her yet, in her red gown with her hair done and her face made up.

She took a seat among the others in the pews, whose noise didn't settle down until the bride walked down the aisle.

She couldn't help but entertain a pang of jealousy, partly because the bride was beautiful in a manner that a woman like _her_, all tact and minimal grace, could never keep up with, and her wedding was beautiful, while _she_ never had one.

Before she could even ponder whose fault it was, the bride finally reached the altar and her stare landed upon the ones who stood there: a priest, the groom with his recognizable shock of blond-brown hair, and…

Her stomach churned uncomfortably, and in her chest her heart _yearned_.

It only made sense that he would be there. Two birds with one stone, really: it was a political move, a clever showcase of command because who else could have the honor of having the Fuhrer as his best man? And all at once, he was a respected superior, an admired mentor, and a dear friend.

She didn't, couldn't pay attention to the rest of the ceremony, unable to tear away from the way his onyx hair brushed his collar, exposing a bit of the skin at his nape, the broadness of his shoulders and how he held them proudly. It was all too memorable, this portrait in her mind: watching his back at all times, eliminating any danger with one precise shot before it could even get near him.

It ended, like any other wedding, with a kiss, and when people began to rise up and clap, and cheer some, she took it as a signal to walk away before she even meets him. She fears she wouldn't have the courage to depart when, _if _she does. She'd have to write a letter of apology to the groom for not congratulating him in person.

But it just wasn't meant to be, since an ink-haired lieutenant colonel wearing rimmed glasses and a youthful grin recognized her, and everyone else did after that. The old team pulled her along with them to the reception, and she'd forgotten just how much she missed this, missed them.

They had left her momentarily for the dance floor, while she opted to watch contentedly, when suddenly, he was _there_ and she didn't even see it coming.

He had grown slightly older, and so did she, but everything else was the same. The smirk on pale features, one hand in his pocket while the other was offered to her, and his eyes, black as night, twinkling like the stars that shone brighter, clearer, in the country skies…

He doesn't speak, only waits, and she realizes that he has been waiting all along.

She stands up, and there is the sting of tears beneath her lids, but it's a good sting, and he takes her palm, pressing it to his lips, before putting it against his heart.

"_Far away, for far too long." _The smirk becomes a patient smile, like candle fire ghosting softly on between her fingers. _"Almost sounds like a song."_

His voice pushes her over the edge, and she cannot help but throw her arms around him like she did, once, the first time she thought she'd really lost him, and how many times had she lost him after that? She has never been one to explicitly show emotion, so right now she is desperate to tell him, to show him, just how he makes her feel, but she's failing, reduced to shudders and smudged mascara.

He holds her tighter to him, and whispers with a gentleness she didn't know he had.

"I know, I know, we have to make up for lost time.

"_It's been—_

**A/N: **I worked hard on this, yknow. Please review.**  
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